


angel eyes

by dinosaurchestra



Category: Lemon Demon - Fandom, Lemon Demon | Neil Cicierega - Fandom
Genre: Christmas, M/M, Terrible Spotify Playlist Choices From Neil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-24 02:19:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17092196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dinosaurchestra/pseuds/dinosaurchestra
Summary: Nature Tapes has a thing for Dinosaurchestra. Takes a bit to admit it to himself, though.





	angel eyes

Maybe Tapes is a little keen on Dinosaurchestra.

Maybe he'll admit that much.

That kid's somethin' saccharin without all the bad side effects, somethin’ cherry — cola talking action movie hero boy that numbs the sweet tooth. Dinosaurchestra's the first ray of sunlight at dawn, the silken speaking angel with bright hair and a brighter smile, got Tapes stuttering serrated in the cinema when they were watching The Emoji Movie (ironically, Neil promised, ironically, View-Monster enjoyed it) and their knees brushed together and this _ eldritch abomination fuckhead fuckboy in a striped shirt  _ (said Neil a little casually, once, that old pal Nature Tapes looked like a man called Seymour from a musical they'd never watched called Little Shop of Horrors and View-Monster had  _ slapped him in shock! _ ) couldn't think fucking straight for a week. 

It's a little stupid, when you think about it practically.

But Nature Tapes wasn't practical.

For fuck's sake, Neil had wrote him as an album about trucks in intercourse.

-

The first instance of this fact is, surprisingly, not with the veritable subject of this horror. Nature Tapes and Spirit Phone are walking down a Massachusetts street, talking, more mundane than they actually are because they’ve made it to appear so. 

Nature Tapes knows Spirit Phone can destroy gods. Nature Tapes knows Spirit Phone can swallow universes with that reality — rending smirk, invite in Lovecraftian darlings to line his bed and ensure Ronald Reagan’s immortalization. Nature Tapes knows Spirit Phone can do terribly monstrous things if he wishes, but in front of the blue backdrop of a Earth Tuesday afternoon’s sunny sky, Spirit Phone just looks like a goth version of their creator.

“Gosh,” Spirit Phone enthuses, motioning to urban buildings around them as they saunter — they stop in the middle of the pavement as Spirit Phone bends down to pick a flower and show Nature Tapes, who recedes from the physical action instantly. “Neil didn’t tell me the human world was this gorgeous.”

“Neil doesn’t tell us anything, if you haven’t fucking noticed already,” Nature Tapes spits back in common response, his voice a levelled cadence of derisive deadpan as he takes a glimpse at their surroundings and finds only pitiful normalcy. “The guy hates us.”

“No,” counters Spirit Phone swiftly, letting go of the flower as they continue to stroll, “he doesn’t hate us. He’s too much of a human to hate us. He made us.”

“Motherfucker, if you-” Spirit Phone elbows Nature Tapes with the force of a divine entity destroying a planet and Nature Tapes barely keels over. Being a manifestation of subjective reality had its perks. “Sorry, language, Phone, but if you start verbalizing imagery of Neil Cybersex as the Allmother, I’m going to throw up right in front of these goddamn fucking _ picturesque  _ flowerbeds that Ming’s neighbor put up and didn’t even credit her for stealing the seeds from Neil’s backshed where he keeps all of the New Kids equipment.”

In response, Spirit Phone sighs. He doesn’t sigh, actually, he throws his head to the sky and lets out something that could be called a sigh but is actually a overtheatric groan that makes the seraphs shameful. Fuck his theatrics, at least Nature Tapes told people he was an attention seeker. “You get what I mean, Nature Tapes. Hate’s a strong word. At most, he dislikes us, but I don’t think the man really, truly, despises us.”

“Can’t relate.”

Spirit Phone purses his lips, and averts his eyes. “You just have very low self esteem, Tapes.”

Nature Tapes’ head snaps up immediately to look at the other headon, dark eyes glaring and feathers instantly ruffled.  _ Shit. _ “No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do. You project your inner self-hate onto Neil, onto everyone around him, and into your perception of how he thinks of you in an attempt to distract yourself from your delicate psyche.”

Blandly, Tapes blinks. “I didn’t ask to be fucking psychotherapized in the middle of a Somerville avenue, Touch-Tone Telefuck. You don’t know anything about me, and I don’t-” He scoffs, “I don’t — don’t project hate onto everyone. There’s one person that doesn’t deserve it, see.”

They round the corner. Somewhat of a walking wonder, which is why a few people stare — Spirit Phone and Nature Tapes, as direct physical copies of Neil Cicierega, mirror each other in different states of being. Spirit Phone’s overdressed for the weather (but never too overeducated, he’ll say if anyone asks.) with a full white shirt, black vest, red tie and trousers, hair slicked and lashes long. Nature Tapes finds his fashion kind of absurd, which is why NT doesn’t have any: he wears the same black, red, orange and purple striped dress shirt, white undershirt, black trousers and leather boots every single day. To say they looked like twins would be an understatement. To say they looked like a fever dream would be an understatement. Nature Tapes is fully aware of this. “What, you?”

“No!” Nature Tapes shakes his head immediately and Spirit Phone tilts head in concern — embarrassed, Nature Tapes takes it down a notch, his voice almost a stammer trying to explain himself. “No, I’m terrible. I’m at least self — aware of that, Spirit Phone.”

“Good.” 

“There’s just…” Nature Tapes paused. Not unable to explain. No. Nature Tapes could never be wrong, because that inherently was wrong. Nature Tapes was just...sure. Too sure, in fact, that he was faltering trying to word the thoughts bouncing around inside his head. “Dinosaurchestra. They’re less hateable, if that makes sense?” Spirit Phone raises a brow as the man continues, “They’re very funny, when they’re being themselves. And intentionally funny, too. And they’re very nice. Very kind — hearted. Sweet, if you would-” begins to spiral as consciousness streams from thin lips, “they don’t mean any harm, really, which is weird to me, because the world’s inherently full of bastards, but Dinosaurchestra lives knowing that and just wants to do good. I spilled soup on their lap once and they apologized to me for it. And they’re very aesthetically pleasing, I think. Not like I find them cute, but it’s a trait that’s impossible to despise, their eyes are fascinatingly deep-”

and Spirit Phone holds a curved claw to Nature Tapes’ lips,

“What?” mildly smothered tone clueless as Nature Tapes’ beady black eyes squint,

and Spirit Phone grins. It’s a monstrous, unfathomable sight, as his maw opens and it’s a child’s nightmare. All teeth, various rows of them, going back into his skull as fevered fangs that could puncture reality’s fragile skin open and his jaw  **_unhinges with his smile_ ** .

The glamours that hide the personifications’ inhuman qualities hide humanity from war.

“You’re in love.”

Immediately, errors start popping up in Nature Tapes’ skull. Love isn’t real but a hoax created by the Reagan government to ensure people never paid attention to the president’s dubious dealings, so how could it manifest in Nature Tapes, an unassuming entity in his 20s who’s only redeeming quality was the upvotes he got on r/surrealmemes by posting selfies. Love was a disease. A fatal virus that made Nature Tapes hopeful for the future, a terrible pathogen that made his heart (if he owned one.) skip a beat everytime Dinosaurchestra smiled. He wasn’t in love because love, simply, didn’t exist.

Whilst he internally questions himself, Nature Tapes possesses a poker face the entire time, frozen in the street. Spirit Phone drags him home, still teasing.

-

Alright, he was in “love”. Love. A grotesque mess of letters. A one syllable storm.

It wasn't like Nature Tapes deserved to be loved back, though. That was a pathetic hymn of a thought, a pathetic prayer that god (with a lowercase g because Nature Tapes had eaten the God with a uppercase G a long time ago) had put on noise-cancelling headphones during. Gross, the thought of Dinosaurchestra beaming at him because he'd said something nice. Gross, the thought of having his feelings be recioprocated in a healthy working relationship that imitated Neil’s that Nature Tapes was perhaps  _ jealous _ of, yes. Gross, the thought of kissing Dinosaurchestra and having his hands running through their soft cyan curls and having those hands rest at the nape of his neck whilst they embraced and Dinosaurchestra's leg lifted like one of those old movies that Ming and Neil got sappy over together. (Fucking human morons. The greatest love story of all time was Gnomeo and Juliet.) 

Gross, gross, gross.

Maybe Dinosaurchestra is diseased too, because they have been acting weird towards him in the past couple of days since Spirit Phone’s smile. They’d said hello twice to him in the morning and bashfully covered their reddened face as they motioned to the pancakes they’d made. They’d been a little more affectionate towards him, curling into his side on the couch during the Cicierega-Doyles’ weekly horror marathon, drowsy dew-eyed darling clutching to him in trust. Trust. Implying Nature Tapes was reliable. 

(He kind of likes remembering Dinosaurchestra falling asleep under his arm that night.)

This epidemic of sudden development was a fatal hormonal plague, and they were the patients zero.

Would that mean they’d get to spend time together in the hospice?   


-

Nature Tapes’ hatewatch of Friends is interrupted by I Am Become Christmas kicking open his door with a tired-looking Neil and a happy-looking Dinosaurchestra under their wing. Nature Tapes tries to look more presentable and less vulnerable to Chandler Bing as he throws aside the blanket, flinging the popcorn carelessly onto the floor as he stands and paints himself messily as casually having stood in the middle of the bedroom tposing the entire time.

Neil’s brows knit themselves a scout’s knot as he surveys the mess. “Hey, Tapes. You’re coming Christmas shopping with us.”

Dinosaurchestra looks like he wants Nature Tapes to come, so Nature Tapes goes under the pretence (that he assures everyone of five minutes between before Neil angrily and hastily turns from his place in the driver’s seat with his gloved hands on the wheel and tells Nature Tapes if he doesn’t shut up he’s going to write Mouth Despacito canon into the Mouth Moods trilogy and then shove that up Nature Tapes' ass) that it’s to make sure that I Am Become Christmas doesn’t do anything drastic. They drive into Somerville’s centre wrapped up in scarves and coats, snow coating every surface known to the sun — Dinosaurchestra laughs and I Am Become Christmas yowls a Bing Crosby tune and Nature Tapes seethes about life being but a dull knife that’s forever granting no quick end.

If it meant the object of his attraction would look at him and see something of worth, Nature Tapes would let it cut deeper than any human blade.

“Alright, kids, out,” and the squad of Neil lookalikes, as they empty out of Neil's Ford outfitted like a retrohomage to all the B-grade 90s movies he worshipped through Deporitaz's aesthetica into the town square, are granted the sight of Christmas before Christmas. Somerville's real pretty at holiday time, but Nature Tapes thought Ming was kidding when she said that. Lights of all shades decorate streetlights and neon deer hallow every null shadow; the shopping centres, turned lovingly into celebratory multipalettes of red and green. Nature Tapes is openmouthed, and Neil grins widely at him. "Ain't that some shit?"

"Oh, it's beautiful, Mr. Cicierega," gushes I Am Become Christmas, hand flying to his mouth in surprise as the three personifications goggle. Neil's nose screws up at his last name, and he lightly elbows I Am Become Christmas out of his shock.

"Come on," announces Nature Tapes, and then, unsure of the sudden attention from his mirror images, "let's buy some shit."

“Agreed,” Dinosaurchestra chirps, and the four join arms and waltz into the local department store — I Am Become Christmas and Neil go off together, arguing about what to get Ming that she won’t expect but love anyway (“I say the apocalypse!”).

Dinosaurchestra and Nature Tapes are tasked with decorations — the two spent a while fucking around with letter balloons, (Nature Tapes spells out F-I-N-G-E-R-S I-N H-I-S, but stops not for virtue but because he doesn’t have any left to blow up. Dinosaurchestra, confused, worries if Nature Tapes is trying to say anything.) next disrespecting an aisle formerly for displaying empty photo frames to buy now disgraced with magical images of trucks and dinosaurs at a click of their fingers. They lavish in the tree decoration aisle and use tinsel as boa, baubels as bottle-cap glasses — have fun pretending, but eventually buy items and wander outside of Neil’s eye. Bag under their arm, Dinosaurchestra clings to Nature Tapes for warmth as they look up at the dark skies.

“It’s snowing.”

“Yeah,” contends Nature Tapes, “that happens sometimes, I have to apologize.”

Dinosaurchestra kicks him in the shins and Nature Tapes almost collapses in surprise. They take his glasses and point to the little flecks of snow that look like cracked glass in the reflection of them, point to the falling atom — sized stars around them. “I’ve never seen snow, Nature Tapes. I know you-” voice faltering, wonder met with lack of it, “hate everything for everything it stands for for some reason, for the persona, or whatever, but this is cool. It’s spiffy!” They stomp their foot and Nature Tapes lets forth a laugh he immediately silences — Dinosaurchestra peers up at the crooked man. “Stop being a Grinch. Enthuse.”

“I’m not being a Grinch.”

“Yes, you are-”

Dinosaurchestra’s silenced by a well-aimed snowball, but quick reflex means the projectile only hit their elbow. They look up at a grinning Nature Tapes. Two can play at this game. “No, I’m not, sugar.”

“No,” their voice raises to an enthusiastic shout as they quickly grab a handful of snow and pelt it at him as he raises a brow and bends over to dodge. “You are!” From there, it descends into chaos outside the Somerville centre as they engage in a fight of half-melted ice and Nature Tapes using military tactics to beat Dinosaurchestra in a snowball fight. It’s brutal and it’s a smart battle, both parties objectively fighting the good fight, but it ends when David drops the slingshot and tackles Goliath to the ground. The impact to Nature Tapes is cushioned by the thick layer of snow on the ground — Dinosaurchestra beams at him from their spot overpowering him, and, again, Nature Tapes’ faux heart does a flippy over thing that never fails. “I’ve got you, Nature!”

“Yes,” Nature Tapes allows himself to messily imitate the other, smile fanged and ferocious although ordinary — Dinosaurchestra’s reaction is more laughter and they fall off him so, two snow angels going against the beaten path. They look at him and their grin remains, although weary. “Yes, it seems you’ve beaten me.”

“Nature?”   


“Hm?”   


“Why do you always pretend, like, that you’re untouchable?”

Huh.

“No, I don’t. How was your day?”

They reach over and punch his shoulder, albeit lightly. “Like that. You avoid all personal interaction. Fun. You don’t like fun, I’ve noticed — it’s weird. Like, you wanna join in with me and View-Monster when we’re theorising about something alternative and nerdy or another situation, but instead you spit in View-Monster’s face and go up to your room to sulk. But I like it when you do, even though you don’t look ‘cool’. But, you’re Nature Tapes. You’re iconic and featureless.” They let out something of a sigh. “I’m just a dumb kid who shows how they really feel.”

“Hey,” Nature Tapes contributes to the second psychoanalysis in a week, and flops over to gaze at the sky. “You’re not a dumb kid. You’re creative and you speak your mind and you’re lovely to have conversations with, even if I’m  _ shit  _ at them. You’re really nice, Dinosaurchestra. I think it’s worth it to have people in the world that give a fuck about saving it.” 

Dinosaurchestra’s cerulean blue eyes twinkle.

They lean over and hug Nature Tapes for the longest of a while. They’re warm and soft and Nature Tapes holds them until Neil hovers over them, eyes burning into the two, making Nature Tapes regret showing affection as he shrivels up and away from the other; doesn’t talk to Dinosaurchestra for the rest of the car ride home, too afraid of doing that again, too afraid of being not a caricature of a concept but a real, actual person with feelings and worth.

-

The Christmas party's fucking killer. Santa Claus, eat shit.

Ming's prepared a buffet of dishes with View-Monster's touch to ensure ultimate  delicious value (whether that delicious value was moral or not still remains to be eaten) that shuts up Neil's smart remarks for once and makes I Am Become Christmas cry — Spirit Phone has banded together with what knows what to create a neon silhouette on the walls that moves and talks (his name's Soft Fuzzy Man, and View-Monster's enamoured.) Dinosaurchestra and Nature Tapes decorated the tree and surrounding furniture beyond wildest imaginations (irony) and Neil, weirdly, uses the Halloween playlist for a backing track but somehow the Addams Groove fits to Nature Tapes Fortnite dancing in the living room while Ming watches in horror.

Her, and Neil, eventually, leave the room dancing to The Air Conditioned Nightmare (looking at each other with that disgusting faraway sparkle in their eyes that Nature Tapes knows and envies as true love) and Spirit Phone and I Am Become Christmas are surprisingly good dancers for their subject matter. Dinosaurchestra and Nature Tapes are left sitting on the couch, watching their counterparts (lovingly. Sort of felt fucked up to Nature Tapes that an album with a song about eating a corpse for medicinal purposes was able to get laid.) dance with their hands on each others’ hips and their laughs emptied into each others’ faces, but somehow they were comfortable with the intrusion of personal space. The lack of it. Spirit Phone’s peppered kisses onto the bridge of I Am Become Christmas’ nose, his responding laugh and leaning in to whisper something indistinct (god knows what. Maybe a Betty Crocker recipe.) into the other’s ear. Nature Tapes wanted that. But he wasn’t a good person. He was just shitty, terrible, deadpan Nature Tapes-

Dinosaurchestra pulls Nature Tapes up from his slouch with a dimpled smirk and takes both of his hands, “What are you doing?-” twists him around and grabs him again to the music drop and the funk introduction, Nature Tapes becomes adjusted and moves his hands from side to side in mock dance and Dinosaurchestra actually follows him, “alright, I guess this is fun-” and from there, he spirals into — shock and horror, now, audience — genuine enjoyment of the music. The four circle each other, paranormal boy and apocalypse heir, Goosebumps Neil lookalike and time traveler dinosaur fanatic, and the music continues for several hours until the  _ very  _ early hours of the morning. Spirit Phone clocks in tangled in I Am Become Christmas’ arms on the couch under two blankets, whilst Dinosaurchestra and Nature Tapes keep dancing until the music fades and they, too, sink to the floor and lie down and look at the ceiling like they’d had after that night Christmas shopping, looking at the sky, like nothing else mattered.

“Thank you,” breezes Dinosaurchestra, after a long while. Nature Tapes’ glassesless gaze flickers over to them, and he frowns.

“Why?”

They turn over and lean on their elbow to stay upright, lids occasionally falling as they yawn and the ends of their lips tuck for a smile. “For trying your best.”

“I don’t try my best.” Nature Tapes swallows. “It feels like it, anyway.”

“That’s okay,” the other replies, and it’s a long while again. “I like your best. I like you, in general.”

“Thank you,” breezes Nature Tapes, and this feels easier than it should be, why is it easier than the terrible situation he’d imagined, he tilts his head and smiles. They were askew, but nothing that was worth loving wasn’t. He thinks he’s crying. Something’s in his eye. “I like you, too.”

“Oh,” murmurs Dinosaurchestra, leaning on their elbow to smile at him with a reddened face. The hanging lights above them frame their face neon heavenly. Luminous lovely. He kisses the other, and they melt into it swiftly. Their soft hands press and grab into his technicolour shirt to pull him closer, breath hitching sweetly as they mumble something,  _ this is really nice, _ kiss him again and his hand trails into their hair, natural blue, to hold them there, in this moment, forever, together, like nothing or Neil or any fucking person could break them apart. “Oh, I think the feeling’s mutual.”

**Author's Note:**

> based off userseraph's lemon demon personification au


End file.
